Chapter Eleven
The river lay like glass, smooth and undisturbed, catching the first pale light of the sun as Isaac lifted a tin mug of bitter coffee to his lips.
Dawn held a special reverence in his heart.
The sun’s unhurried ascent into the sky made the minutes stretch longer than they should, giving the sense one could accomplish anything.
Dusk was crueler—the sun racing for the horizon, laying waste to well-intentioned plans before they could come to fruition.
Soon, the deck would be alive with boots and voices, with orders barked and sails snapping. The stillness would shatter. But for now, he let it linger, savoring the fleeting quiet before the day made its demands. And demand it would. His face hardened as he stared out over the water.
Somewhere out there, Thorne sailed. And if Isaac had his way, their paths would cross.
Many things would have to fall into place before then, though.
The first of which was sailing to Wilmington with great haste.
The sooner they got there, the sooner they would be able to find out what the pirate searched for.
Thorne’s cold disconnection from the world around him made him a dangerous enemy.
He didn’t behave like any foe Isaac had ever faced before.
Hell, he’d nearly killed his own son without so much as blinking an eye.
No matter what drove him to such madness, he belonged behind bars, where he could never terrorize innocent lives again.
For now, Christian remained committed to the same outcome.
As long as he wasn’t the one making the arrest, he could handle his father’s fate.
Or so he claimed. Isaac’s gaze shifted to the Red Siren, Christian and Samantha’s schooner.
Their efficient crew already had the sails unfurled, ready to tie down.
“We’re ready to sail.” As if summoned by his thoughts, Christian climbed up the steps to the forecastle and Isaac had to blink.
He’d become so accustomed to calling Christian lieutenant, that the change still shocked him.
Gone was the sharp cut of a navy uniform and the crisp posture of a man who could command an entire ship without saying a word.
Now, his friend stood easier, his shoulders looser, the perpetual tightness in his jaw eased as though a weight had been lifted.
And yet, there were moments—like now, when his gaze swept the deck—that the old lieutenant flickered through, ever sharp-eyed and assessing.
Isaac glanced down to the dock where a wagonful of water barrels had just arrived. “The last of our supplies are being loaded now.”
A grin spread across Christian’s face. “We’ve been loaded for the better part of the last hour. What’s taking your men so long?”
“Come now, with twice the men, I’d say we’re making better time than you.”
Christian winked. “We’ll see who’s faster at sea. Maybe I’ll leave you behind and do all the interviewing without you.”
Isaac couldn’t help his smile. “Well, wouldn’t that be great? Just give me the location of Thorne and I won’t have to waste any time on shore. Sounds like a dream.”
The mention of his father wiped the grin from his friend’s face, and he twisted to look back toward the Siren. “Jesting aside, I’m glad to sail alongside you. You’ll have our unwavering support in all things.”
Isaac didn’t miss Christian’s meaning. The Thompson crew had been one of Samantha’s uncle’s finest. The merchant had been hiding his involvement in piracy for years, right under everyone’s noses.
It meant his men were well-trained and disciplined.
Having their help during any battle would be invaluable.
“Well, what are you waiting for? By the time you get back on the Siren, we’ll be pushing off.”
With one more wink, Christian left him, and Silas jogged up the stairs. “We’re ready, Captain.”
Isaac stood at the quarterdeck’s railing, staring down the expanse of the main deck.
A sharp edge of anticipation curled within his chest as he gripped the rail with steady hands.
Beneath the surface calm, his gut tightened, same as it always did when taking to sea.
Part reverence, part exhilaration—a primal thrill he suspected would never fade.
“Cast off the bow and stern lines!” His command carried through the heavy morning air. “Ease her off the dock!”
At once, the crew leapt into action. Ropes slapped against the timbers as the dock lines were freed and heaved aboard. The Tempest drifted slightly, vibrating with her new freedom.
Isaac turned toward Silas, who stood at the wheel. “Ahead slow. Bring her into the current.”
“Aye, sir.” His first officer handled the wheel with practiced ease.
The sails snapped free and billowed in the slight breeze, and the ship caught the wind, her bow slicing through the dark water as she pulled from the docks.
Gradually, their speed increased, and he couldn’t help looking back.
Even with their head start, the Siren followed closely in their wake.
Moments later, she passed them in the narrow channel.
Christian gave a cheerful wave from his spot at the helm.
“Not so fast,” Isaac muttered. He lifted his eyes to the yards, where crewmen still fastened lines. “More sail. Shake out the topsails!”
“I certainly hope the entire trip is not made into a race.” Silas’s dry comment brought Isaac’s attention back.
He clapped the first officer’s shoulder. “That, officer, is not a bad idea.”
To port, the city gradually fell away, replaced with wide expanses of reeds and sawgrass.
As they passed Hutchinson’s Island, the sluggish current tugged at the hull.
Silt and sandbars lurked beneath the surface, shifting with every tide.
Isaac scanned the water for telltale swirls hinting at hidden shoals.
Beyond Elba Island, the waterway widened, most of the threats disappearing, and he let out a breath, fixing his eyes on the horizon where the river gave herself to the sea.
The wind, unshackled by the narrow banks, filled the sails and the Tempest surged forward with new purpose.
Once they passed the Tybee Island lighthouse and the Tempest cleared the last of the sandbars, Isaac went below to his cabin.
With effortless precision, he unbuckled his sword belt, gently setting the leather scabbard on his desk.
Sinking into the chair, he spread a navigational map out and retrieved his instruments from a drawer.
His fingers traced up through the inlets of the Carolinas.
With practiced precision, he measured the distance, using his brass divider to mark the nautical miles.
He marked the spot they should be by midafternoon and charted their course from there—a steady northeast tack hugging the coastline, where they would benefit from the prevailing winds.
Leaning back, he pulled his sword free, the steel glistening even in the dim light of the cabin.
He ran his thumb lightly along the edge, testing its sharpness.
A whetstone lay in his top drawer and he removed it, drawing it across the blade in a familiar rhythm.
Back and forth, each pass smoothed invisible nicks away.
A soft knock came from his door and he paused as the cabin boy entered with a tray of food.
The boy kept his head down and approached in silence.
He extended the tray and faltered, silverware clattering while water sloshed over the edge of a full goblet.
Isaac bit back a curse as some dripped onto the map.
“I’m sorry, sir.” The slightest hint of an accent laced the boy’s soft words as he used his sleeve to wipe up the mess before it could soak into the linen-backed paper. Something familiar, yet he couldn’t quite place it.
“Jack, isn’t it?”
All he got was a quick nod in return as the boy turned and hurried from the cabin.
Shy, then—or perhaps had worked under harsh captains before.
No matter, after a few days, he would come out of his shell.
Isaac turned back to his sword, wiping it with an oiled cloth before sliding it back into its scabbard.
His gaze drifted to the window, where golden sunlight filtered through the panes.
His mind wandered—back to the island, to the wild beauty beneath the waterfall’s rush.
To a peach pressed to supple lips, juice flowing down bronzed skin.
Her image came unbidden, an unwelcome visitor to his thoughts, yet in the solitude of his cabin, he found himself unwilling to cast her out.
A silent surrender to a temptation he dared not name.
*
Isaac stretched his arms above his head after he climbed from the main hatch.
His rest had done him well. Now for four hours at the helm.
He glanced off the port side, where the Siren had taken the lead a few hundred yards out.
Close enough for him to see copper hair billowing from behind the wheel.
Though most men would scoff at the idea of letting Samantha captain a ship, Isaac knew better than anyone how adept she was at it.
Hell, she could probably outperform half his men—on the water and with a blade.
He slowed as he passed a group of men polishing the deck, brushes sweeping rhythmically against the planks.
The new cabin boy hunched over a spot, scrubbing with a desperate fervor.
The boy seemed smaller, frailer, than he had come across in the tavern the night before.
Now, he struggled under the weight of a simple task.
Isaac’s brow furrowed. The kid had probably lied about his age—and experience.
He nearly stopped to question him, but after a sigh, continued. Even if the boy admitted it, what option was there? Wasn’t like he would toss the lad into the brig. Up on the quarterdeck, he took the wheel from Silas.
His first officer flexed his hands, rubbing them on his breeches. “She’s under too much strain. Best to slow our pace.”
Isaac glanced up at the sails, billowing in the rushing wind. The massive canvas sheets stretched taut, humming under the pressure. Still, considering the steady breeze and calm surf, she would be fine—was built to withstand much worse.
He shook his head. “Let’s take advantage of these conditions and make as much distance as we can. I’ll have the men shorten the sails before my watch is up.” Silas gave a single nod and headed down to take his rest.
Isaac fixed his eyes on the horizon, but his thoughts refused to stay on course, despite his best efforts.
Each time he closed his eyes, he saw her.
Though his palm rested against the spoke, he could almost feel the subtle tremble in her fingers as he had led Miss Montclair around the dance floor.
The light scent of her hair, something floral, clung to him like a ghost. He’d meant to keep his distance, meant to follow Christian away.
Yet something about her had tugged on him, like the pull of a full moon’s tide. And he’d asked for the dance.
He shouldn’t have.
The shape of her waist beneath his palm, the pulsing warmth of the curve there, all burned into his memory.
Something about the wonder in her eyes as she experienced the party, her unfettered enjoyment, had softened his usual disdain for such events.
She hadn’t wanted to say goodbye. Truth be told, he hadn’t either.
He exhaled sharply, forcing his grip on the wheel to tighten, the rough wood biting into his palms. It didn’t matter.
She was back in Savannah now, far removed from this deck and foolish thoughts.
He had left her behind, just as he should have.
And yet, the memory clung to him like sea mist, refusing to drift away.
With a scowl, he turned his eyes back to the sails, determined to let the wind carry her from his mind.
His skin prickled, the weight of someone’s gaze pressing on him, and he turned.
The cabin boy ducked his head, returning to his work, his face cloaked in the shadows from his brimmed hat.
The wind gusted across the deck, pressing Jack’s shirt around his frame, highlighting a curved waist. Isaac gritted his teeth and dragged his gaze away. Ridiculous. Now he was seeing things.
A sudden crack echoed across the ship and Isaac’s heart leapt to his throat, his hands tightening around the spokes.
His gaze darted to the deck just in time to see a young crewman knocked off his feet as a thick line snapped across the deck like a whip, striking him hard across the chest. He tumbled, landing hard against the railing, his body crumpling in a heap.
“Damn it!” Isaac spun hard starboard to take pressure off the sails.
The wheel groaned under the force, the ship’s heavy rudder straining against the current.
A heartbeat later, the vessel heeled sharply, tilting as the bow swung to the right.
An odd silence fell over the deck as the rushing wind slowed.
The crew stood in shock as crimson blossomed across the sailor’s chest. Tightness clawed at Isaac’s gut as the man lay motionless.
“Get the surgeon’s kit!” he barked, but before anyone could respond, a small figure darted across the deck—a blur of motion amid the chaos.
The cabin boy. Jack dropped to his knees beside the injured man, reaching for the wound.
His hands were steady, his focus unshaken, even as blood pooled beneath the sailor.
Isaac gritted his teeth as tension vibrated through the wheel, the ship already fighting his sudden change in course. “Steady,” he muttered, willing her into submission.
The crew scrambled, one pulling a bucket of fresh sea water up, another darting below deck.
Jack had torn a strip from the prone sailor’s shirt and pressed hard on his chest. The doctor appeared at last, moving quickly toward the scene, though the cabin boy had already done much to stem the bleeding.
The sailor’s arm lifted, grasping at the wound.
Isaac finally allowed himself a breath, but his mind didn’t settle.
Jack still knelt, his hands working with a confidence that struck Isaac as…
odd, considering his interactions with the boy thus far.
He loosened his grip on the wheel, letting the ship slide back into the wind.
Two crew members carried the wounded man down below, while the cabin boy stared after them, wringing his hands.
After a few moments, he returned to his spot on the deck, picking up a brush and scrubbing the boards with fresh vengeance.
Isaac couldn’t help but chuckle. Maybe he had been wrong. Awkward or not, Jack at least had a steady head. And that would serve him well on board the Tempest.